


Rumble Recharge

by Ostler



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Gen, Ostler, Some Humor, snores
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:00:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ostler/pseuds/Ostler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apart of the Ladybird Special story but is a humorous oneshot. Engineer</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rumble Recharge

**Author's Note:**

> This is a thank you for all who read the Ladybird Special. I might have an illustration for this somewhere.

**The Secret that Doesn’t Exist**

My time in the capture of the hmm what do I call these beings? I can’t communicate my final results without having to deviate from some highly influencing opinions depending upon which side of The Great War you’d be on. First thing to consider among the backbone research is that the two sides of this war are not two seperate beings but really two political factions Autobots and Decepticons but their race is called Cybertronian, an homage to their former home planet Cybertron. They are not only extraterrestrial but their philosophies, their history, etymology, cultures, theologies and sciences are so intermixed that it revolves around Mechanical/Engineering. In fact, their medical officers are often scientists with backgrounds as varied as night and day. Ratchet was the field medic, where as I'm estimating Knockout was the coroner. Don’t ask me how that works, the three R’s of war religion, resources, and real estate. Their entire religion was a simplified pantheon of two gods for creation and destruction, their resource is actually a manufactured chemical compound that makes up an entire backbone of weapons, fossil fuels and bodily fluids, while the home planet was already a dirt ball with a mechanical past so old that the only way we have these mystical artifacts is simply because people forgot who built these ancient wonders of science and sum it all up as “The Mystical Powers of Primus”. I’m writing down my results wondering why do this? Why write of my scientific findings when everyone at the Pentagon and Cybertronians know this as everyday common knowledge?

It is not common knowledge to me.

If I can comfort myself by looking at my potential end through detached scientific eyes then I could adapt and cope to my brooding situation.

 At first glance it’s hard to see these skyscraping metal men as anything but metal ferocity. Megatron during my time here beat me black and blue earning me two giant bruises, broken ribs, and a potentially bum leg. It felt like only a sprain but with the way my knee and ankle swelled I didn’t want to risk finding out. Laying out the emergency medical supplies I bought in my first cigarette run reminded me of the jam in my shoulder every time I lifted my arm. Cerise eyes gazing into the piece of scrapmetal I used for a mirror reminded me of why Megatron beat me in the first place.

Vents around the ribs cooled down the generator which powered up the Wormhole device visibly wedged into my chest. This was what Megatron beat me over. It wasn’t oozing thank goodness but there are some what could I say no-no’s that couldn’t be crossed. I used the wrist computer to activate the device and reveal the fake lungs underneath the Skin and bone. Screwdriver to tune up the generator, I pressed a button and deactivated the wormhole. Culturally Decepticons considered sacrilege to be a machine that was part flesh but xenophobia is an untested scientific field of study and if I hear them call me Techno Organic one more time I will shrewdly correct them that the term is _cyborg_ or just _prosthetically inclined_ even if it earns me a trip to the hospital. I once hypothesized there was no such thing as alien lifeforms but seeing as how my current prison cell is an empty energon cube is testament to how much these giants eat. Running water and personal plumbing was jury-rigged by me for my forced upon abode. The slabs of steel glued to the outside gave me a semblance of privacy to even comb my shoulder length mess of green dyed hair. I touched up the color using the ionizer, bandaging wounds and applying Bengay to hurt muscles was the start of a months long daily routine. Not including the occasional shave and the vibrating through the floor.

Nearly nicked myself with the razor when the tremors started again. The chaotic rumbling grinding between gears and glass. The razor flying out of my hand as the rumbles changed from steady oscillations to the repeated bouncing of gigantic footfalls. Automaton Drones run left right and screwy.  I winced, hauling myself onto my good leg. It was nightfall or recharge cycle on the S.S.S. Nemesis. I pushed open my ramshackle door barely peeking out to see before getting squished.

“Excuse me!” I yelled out but the metal clangs drowned out my yells. I rushed into the car to follow the vehicons mad dash. Only to find the crowd of giants stepping back and forth. To and fro the arguments began. Back and forth the tremors tumbled. My VW Bug dancing upon it’s wheel thanks to the minimal amount of footwork. I grabbed the dashboard, seatbelts weren’t designed for this. “Hey! HEYYYYY!”

I repeatedly honked the car horn. All faces turned to the little rusty car down below. It’s horn blasting until a pregnant pause followed in its wake. I got out. I slammed the door. My body laid against the hood.

“Ahem, excuse me but could someone tell me why I can feel tremors through the floor at some ungodly hour in the morning?” I asked.

“That’s it I’m heading to bed,” Airachnid rumbled, “Oh and Dr. Filbert, nice nick across the chin. I don’t think it’ll match the bloodwood plaque where I’ll hang your head.”

Her soft laughter sent chills up my spine as she stalked out.

“You Puny Bug this is your fault!” Knockout seethed, voice hoarse and cracked.

“For honking my horn?” I asked, “Or for parking my car.”

Breakdown warily stood adjacent to where I propped myself. His ped making a vibratory stomp. Soundwave pointed to the opening hall where the Commanders all bunked temporarily in close quarters. The walls, thin as they are, leave plenty of air.

“How is this my fault?” I requested, “And if you could be so kind as to tell me what the problem is in the first place than maybe shame and blame game set aside, I could find a way to fix it.”

Lots of things could have gone wrong with my arrival. I rigged plumbing from the water coolers that cool the console generators. It could’ve fried something in the other mechanics of the ship. The slabs of steel I gathered for my forced upon abode might have actually been a vital organ or someone’s face. Maybe it’s because they hate my cigarettes. On more than one occasion I’ve heard some of the Decepticons complaining about me smelling like tobacco.

“Just look at what this monster did to my finish!” Knockout confided in Breakdown.

He had tiny fixable scratches down his back.

“I’ll slag whoever ruined my finish.” He warned, “Mark my words.”

Now doesn’t that just make you want to take a sharpie and scribble all over his speech bubble? I’d heard of street racers complaining about the transmission on their car. My wife used to worry about her hair on her wedding day but this? Knockout clutching his skid plates because of a tiny scratch? Make that several tiny scratches even after surviving centuries of daily beatings? I held back a chuckle.

“Do you know how hard it is to get scratches out from down there?” Knockout complained.

Breakdown held his hands high in surrender stepping slowly away from the distraught medic.

“Don’t look at me,” warned Breakdown, “I am not lending you a servo when it comes to your aft.”

  “Oh?” teased Airachnid, “I didn’t think scratches come as a normality.”

Knockout’s “lips” thinned as he stood there. Heat radiating off his silouette in waves. Soundwave and I exchanged a glance. Soundwave didn’t have a prerecorded response. I laughed my tail off at Knockout. All this fuss and he woke everyone up over a little scratch. The glare of his crimson optics made me choke on my chortles.

“What?” I declared, “It’s only paint.”

Knockout stomped off to his sleeping quarters in a huff. I forgot Mr. Smug there has actually creamed opponents for messing up his paint job. He’s more vain than a cosmetics worker hoarding Victoria’s secret. Sighing, leaning off onto my car. I looked toward Soundwave.

He only responded with a recording of _“Don’t look at me!”_

“I’m not,” I responded, “It’s, eh, just surprising to see such a “human” side of my kidnappers. Pain, emotions, every sentient being has those.” I took a drag on my cigarette. Smoke puffed out of my rib vents until I exhaled. “It’s just hard to imagine someone so tough worrying over something so fragile.”

Soundwave gave a single nod. That’s the last I heard of him that recharge cycle. Next bedtime the same thing happened again. Tremors vibrated me out of bed. Everyone running around arguing. Knockout huffed about his skid plates yet again. I have half a mind to change Knockout’s nickname from Doc-Knock to Bootie Buffer, but this time he wasn’t clutching his posterior. He was clutching his chest.

“I work very hard to look this good,” Knockout sniffed, “I’ll slag whoever ruined my finish.”

Soundwave pointed to Knockout as the culprit and played the sound of nails gargled in baritone.

“Sounds like the snoring that’s been keeping everyone up at night.” Breakdown pointed out. This perked my curiosity. Robots who snore? It sounded too ridiculous but then again I’m an earthling on an alien spacecraft with living sentient automatons. Who knows what their insides look like?

I could’ve voiced the obvious but Airachnid yawned. A hiss escaped her throat. Fangs clacked together. She waved everyone off and went back to bed. The only ones left was Breakdown, Knockout and I. I chewed on the stubby cigarette in my mouth thinking of an answer. No hypothesis could come to mind but it sounded interesting. Scientifically I wanted to see where the snoring came from and if it’s as strong as I guess Knockout’s cosmetic dilemma would make for a fascinating experiment for a machine part I wanted to test out.

“Excuse me?” I exclaimed, no one  looked down so I revved the F-16 engine of my VW Bug.

_FSSSSSSH ZOOOM SHHHH SHWAAAAAHHHHH_

All eyes turned my way. My grin bearing ear to ear.

“Excuse me Knockout but maybe your ri-" I could not say ridiculous or my proposal might get shot down, “Your cosmetic situation on second thought just sounds so sad.”

“Tell me about it,” Knockout confessed, “Wax can only do so much until the dings get hammered out.”

“Tch, tch, tch,tch, tch. You don’t say,” I tutted, “Whelp I wouldn’t know how the Cybertronian respiratory system works but I could help you find the cause of the snores and maybe by stopping it. It could cosmetically help you.”

Knockout raised an optic ridge suspiciously. I clapped my hands in front of me smiling as nice as I could. No hiding that malevolent glint in my cerise gaze. Knockout seemed beside himself with worry. This time to test my new prototype was too delicious to pass up.

“You’re smiling,” Knockout observed.

"Well it's not like I'd take your ventilation system apart just to see how it works." I confessed, "Every bodily function you perform is for much different purposes than what human biology does. Do you mind if I help at all?"

“Yes you would and you’re not being helpful you’re being creepy.” Knockout stated, "So stop it."

“Fine, fine, you're the pot calling the kettle black” I rebutted, “But if we don’t find a solution. Please do not show me the condition of your skid plate when the snores vibrate you off your bed.”

I turned to leave. Even if I couldn't test my science project I needed the shut eye. Megatron would be breathing down everyone's backs in the morning. Alas I couldn't answer the Sandman's summons. I flopped around, ten feet above ground. Knockout dangling me between his thumb and forefinger. My entire gaze filled with that whitened, red optical face.

 _“_ On second thought,” Knockout purred, “What is this device? You do have a gadget goody that'd fix my scratch game don't you?”

Good gigabytes, the man changes his tune faster than The Tabloids change celebrities.

I tugged a small crawlspace apart. Gleefully happy no one found the Data-pad hidden inside. No one could call it a Data-pad anymore. The gutted chassis sported vibratory sensors. It’s monitor replaced with a needle and richtor scale. Knock out took the device and banged it. It didn’t do anything. Knockout vented air, and nearly dropped the device when the needle moved.

“So what do you think?” I asked, “It measures respiratory venting well, it’s proper name is a seismograph but it could track whoever is snoring since our mystery sleeper has a richtor scale of a 3.0 earthquake.”

“I don’t care. I just want this problem solved now.” Knockout sniffed.

“Yeah, you have your fun, I’ll be staying away.” Breakdown exclaimed.

It was strange. I’m the only human on this ship. I didn’t see why Breakdown always avoided me like the plague. It’s beyond the norm really.

Our first test was Soundwave’s room. He was utterly and completely still. Only evidence he was sleeping was the boop . . . boop of the diagnostic line on his visor. His helm showing off every vital statistic of his body down to the body weight. I didn’t get to see the inside of his room. Knockout was in a hurry to see the next one.

"Wow he weighs less than Airachnid," Knockout mused, his love for gossip rearing it's ugly head.

"That's normal, Soundwave's alt mode is a stealth bomber of some sort thus he's made of lighter materials." I digressed, "Airachnid is a giant spider literally packing on the pounds because not only does her alt mode weigh 1600 pounds of plated steel. She's carrying 400 more pounds of heavy burrowing and taxidermy artillery in that easter egg of doom mode . . . of hers. Oy vay, not even Cherie had that much luggage and she taught kindergarten."

"And how come is it you were married," Knockout quirked an optic ridge.

"Ah a very private story," I bemused, "And currently I'm a widower. Who's the next suspect on our list?"

“Now I know Breakdown snores, his vent system is enormous. It always rumbles.” Knockout declared.

Breakdown lay curled towards us upon his berth. Not a glow of light from his single eye. The eyeless way these Cybertronians slept spooked me at this time of night. It almost looked like they’d suddenly come alive. They don’t breathe per say so their chests don’t rise and fall. Yet a motorized small sound escaped his lips. I placed a hand next to his chassis. The vibration and sonorous purr of oscillations rumbling through his large frame had slight hiccups and interruptions of a device hastily dissected and slapped back together. Knockout glared silently at the big lug. I stood leaning my hand against him, part of me utterly fascinated by the feel of thousands of purring anatomical parts.

“If you like him so much marry him already,” Knockout grumbled.

My thoughts dissipated. Noticing the drool on my face I wiped it away. I couldn't help the glazed look in my eyes. I loved seeing how things work and I was standing in front of a multi-ton tank. I like machines for the sake of someone likes to work on classic cars. I turned back to the medic hiding my lapse of geekery in a feined heir of smugness right back at him.

“Naw “Buffy” you and him make the cuter couple even color coordinated in fact. I’m just surprised he looks so peaceful in recharge.” I teased, “Let’s check the next one.”

“That would be Airachnid.” He mused.

A shiver of anxiety rumbled my generator. I did not want to enter the witch's den of all Sadists. Airachnid has a fascination with taxidermy. I'd seen some of her collection. She had a bug board pinup of Mary Sue, some guy who worked for Bill Gates, a blank spot for "Jack Darby" is on a pedestal in front of her private Dart Board. Sarcastically, No, she does not have a thing for revenge.

Nah, she'll just hang my head on a pedestal and surround my grave with flowers. She considers that more satisfying than the Death and Dismemberment discount.

“How about Megatron.” I suggested.

“He attacks people in his sleep,” Knockout scoffed.

I went walking back away from Megatron's Boudoir.

“Well then “Buffy” after you.” I mused.

Knockout returned the bow. We both stood outside of Airachnid’s room.  His black and red eyes level with his sardonic smirk. Sometimes I hate the fact the guy I ran off the road in a race or two is a jerk.

“No, no Puny Bug, I insist,” he purred, “After you.”

We entered Airachnid’s room the place didn’t remotely resemble a room much less a nest resembling threaded fiber fill. Sticky, fluffy and with all the strength of tensile steel. Airachnid’s webbing can support at least two thousand pounds of softly snoozing spiderbot. The only evidence she was there was because her spider legs were squeezed out of her cocoon.

“Yeesh, no wonder it’s hard to wake the Second in Command.” He gagged.

“My late wife used to do the same thing with body pillows,” I explained, “Kind of a comfort mechanism considering her nest is reminiscent of an egg sack to a black widow.”

No solution was found. Knockout unhappily chucked the seismograph and went to recharge. I didn’t get it. My invention worked. The brainstorming was spot on. My prototype was a success. The test solution was successful. What was missing?

The tremors started again. The Seismograph needle rang a three point oh. I fell on my bum. Bad leg hurting from the vibration. I ran to Breakdown and Knockout’s room to see what was the matter.

Knockout’s mouth was wide open. His snoring let out a sonorous rip. One servo supporting his head. He slept with his upper body off the berth. Optics shuttered shut. The sound of nails garbled in baritone matched the recording Soundwave showed us when he pointed directly at Knockout.

I slapped my face, cursing about missing the most obvious detail and our resident Walking Wifi Stick Soundwave had told us all the answer all along. This whole blasted time! Suddenly, the experiment wasn't as fun anymore. If people found out this about Knockout, they'd never let him live it down. Heck, we live in close enough quarters as it is. It'd ruin the guy's dignity. What good would it be to his emotional health?

“Good gigabytes,” I stated, “How am I going to show him this in the morning?"

I took out the video camera with my VW Bug. I recorded the results. After he snored himself awake and about pitched a fit. I held a hand up.

“I’m sorry Knockout but you might want to see this.” I explained, "Privately. We missed a sleeper or two in our research."

 I took ourselves to a more private place to show him the video I took of him snoring. Knockout grinned and chuckled at first but the chuckles died down.

That's when he spurted out, "Oh. Oh slag that's ME!"

The blush across his cheeks. It outshined his very finish.

No one can help something that comes naturally to them right? The secret was kept between us and now you if you’ve found this documentation. I didn’t want the others to find it. The Decepticons would’ve teased Knockout for sure and his most prized possession was his image. It still is his most prized possession.

“You didn’t show that video to anyone else?” Knockout asks.

The video went into the incinerator. I saw to its disposal myself.

“No,” I confess, feeling a little bit of empathy for the big vain car “In fact it's the secret that doesn’t exist.”

 

 


End file.
